Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Local Invisibility,
Postcolonial Feminisms
Asian American Contemporary
Artists in California
Laura Fantone
Critical Studies in Gender, Sexuality, and Culture
Series Editors
Danielle Egan
St. Lawrence University
Canton, NY, USA
Patricia Clough
Graduate Centre
City University of New York
New York, NY, USA
Highlighting the work taking place at the crossroads of sociology, sexuality
studies, gender studies, cultural studies, and performance studies, this
series offers a platform for scholars pushing the boundaries of gender and
sexuality studies substantively, theoretically, and stylistically. The authors
draw on insights from diverse scholarship and research in popular culture,
ethnography, history, cinema, religion, performance, new media studies,
and technoscience studies to render visible the complex manner in which
gender and sexuality intersect and can, at times, create tensions and fis-
sures between one another. Encouraging breadth in terms of both scope
and theme, the series editors seek works that explore the multifaceted
domain of gender and sexuality in a manner that challenges the taken-for-
granted. On one hand, the series foregrounds the pleasure, pain, politics,
and aesthetics at the nexus of sexual practice and gendered expression. On
the other, it explores new sites for the expression of gender and sexuality,
the new geographies of intimacy being constituted at both the local and
global scales.
Local Invisibility,
Postcolonial
Feminisms
Asian American Contemporary
Artists in California
Laura Fantone
Gender and Women’s Studies
University of California
Berkeley, CA, USA
vii
viii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Nancy Hom and Michelle Dizon, whose work, politics and
ethics are an endless inspiration, and Cynthia Tom, whose energy and
dedication to Asian American Women Artists Association (AAWAA) can not
be described fully with words. I am grateful to Cynthia for her welcoming,
friendly way of opening up to me, showing such amazing trust and soli-
darity given our differences. I would like to thank Moira Roth, whose vast
knowledge of AAWAA and feminist artists of color guided me, from afar,
and, at times, in wonderful, unexpectedly present ways.
There were many AAWAA artists whose work I could not include here,
even if their words sustained my project, bringing me new insights and
energy, welcoming me after my periods of absence: Shari de Boer, Kay
Kang, XiaoJie Zheng, Shizue Siegel, Lenore Chinn, Judy Shintani, Lucy
Arai, Susan Almazol, Reiko Fuiji and Irene Wibawa. Every show organized
by AAWAA led me to articulate new questions (certainly more relevant
than the naïve ones I had prepared) inspiring insights and turning points
in my research, becoming an endless conversation I do not wish to conclude
now that the book is printed. I regret that it has taken me so long to return
something to them.
On a scholarly level, I am deeply thankful and inspired by Margo
Machida, Mark Johnson, Gordon Chang, Alexandra Chang, Elaine Kim,
Constance Lewallen and Lawrence Rinder.
I am thankful to Tiffany Lin who accompanied me to my interview
with Betty Kano and Cynthia Tom, and helped me with recording and
transcribing.
I am thankful for the BAM PFA staff’s willingness to meet and show
me some of the original works by Theresa Hak-Kyung Cha. That experi-
ence was a turning point for my entire project.
While I was affiliated with the Beatrice Bain Research Group on Gender,
I benefited from the feedback of many brilliant scholars from all over the
world: Meeta Rani Jha, Wendy Sarvasy, Anna Novakov, Lin Bin, Veronica
Saenz, Nicole Roberts, Tomomi Kinawa and the amazing filmmaker Dai
Jin Hua. I don’t know how I could have managed without the friendship
of Yun Li, Rita Alfonso and the warmth of the BBRG common room.
In the same environment, sometimes I had the opportunity to meet
Berkeley graduate students in the decolonial working group lead by Laura
Peréz, and especially the members of the visuality and alterity working
group: Annie Fukushima, Dalida Marìa Benfield and Wanda Alarcòn.
My thanks to BBRG Staff, Gillian Edgelow, Charis Thompson, Paola
Bacchetta, Trinh T. Minh-ha and Juana Rodrìguez for their support in
the early stages. Today I wish to send my best, thankful thoughts to all
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ix
the University of California Berkeley faculty with whom I had the pleasure
to discuss my project; especially Mel Chen, Greg Choy, Catherine Ceniza
Choy, Evelyn Nakano Glenn, Alisa Bierrìa, Sau-Ling Cynthia Wong,
Francine Masiello and Heartha Sweet Wong.
I am deeply indebted for conversations on many topics that turned out
to be relevant to this book, though sometimes I was not open to take in
their insights, because they would have changed completely the structure
of my argument (as they ended up doing anyway obliquely).
My colleagues were a constant inspiration, offering conversation, com-
fort and tips, all gifts that last still today. I am especially thinking of Harvey
Dong, Greg Choy, Ayse Agis, Jac Asher and Barbara Barnes.
For their hospitality, generosity in listening to my many rants, thinking
hard on my early drafts’ feedbacks, thanks to Barbara Epstein, Lou De
Matteis, Marta Baldocchi, Silvia Federici, Shonya Sayres, Rose Kim, Patrizia
Longo, Martin Stokes, Eddie Yuen, Robin Balliger and Marco Jacquemet.
For their illuminating insights and criticism, I am indebted to Patricia
Clough, Hosu Kim and the anonymous reviewers who believed in the proj-
ect, and led me to major rearranging of the chapters, with a mix of grace
and piercing criticism that reminded me of many women in my family.
For the patient, meticulous editing, I am grateful for the assistance I
received from three brilliant women: Kathy Wallerstein, Lisa Ruth Elliott
and Katie Lally. I must thank Palgrave’s editorial team Lani Oshima, Alexis
Nelson and Kyra Saniewski for patiently guiding me from the beginning
to the end, pushing me to move on and conclude, beyond my doubts and
fears.
A final point on location: the book was completed in Italy. I am thank-
ful to all the women in my family who support me and who will never
read this book, but still understand how important it was for me to write
it. I am grateful to all those who believed in maintaining words and
images on the same plane, all those who cross borders with courage and
inspirations.
Finally, I am grateful for my rootedness: a specific place I always go
back to, my family home’s top floor. It is a former barn, where I could
hide and write in silence for hours and enjoy the view of the sun setting on
the Alps. Grazie nonni, papi e mamma per lo spazio fisico e mentale! In this
sentence the many struggles of living between languages lie, hardly hidden
behind this book’s inevitable surface—a trace of a wound, a gap, uno
squarcio, across languages, continents, cultures, generations of women:
appreciating art, being and writing in-between.
Contents
7 Conclusions 211
Bibliography 221
Index 233
xi
List of Figures
xiii
CHAPTER 1
In 2005, I met Trinh T. Minh-ha in Naples and there I saw her films for the
first time. She presented The Fourth Dimension, as an experiment in decon-
structing Japan and exploring frames in digital art (2001). At the time
I was writing about colonialism, neo-orientalism and Japanese characters in
video games. Her visual work and writings shifted my trajectory towards
Asian Americanness, visuality, women artists and alterity. The only other
East Asian visual artists I had in mind at that time were Yoko Ono and
Theresa Hak-Kyung Cha—artists associated with highly experimental work,
centered around gender, otherness and visuality. The encounter with Trinh
T. Minh-ha changed my perspectives in deep ways, and some of the intel-
lectual and spiritual pathways where it took me are still unfolding today.
In 2007 I traveled to Berkeley to see a show at BAM-PFA (Berkeley Art
Museum) titled One Way or Another: Asian American Art Now. The occa-
sion was perfect for me because I had just started pursuing my research
interest in Asian American art, and the show’s curatorial statement promised
“a challenge to extend the category of Asian American art”:
Curators Melissa Chu, Karin Higa and Susette Min surprised me in their
oscillation between using a collective, demographic category (Asian
American) and, at the same time, emphasizing the self and individuality
within it and thus denying its validity as a ground for a commonality, an
artistic style, or a shared set of concerns and foci in Asian American artists’
work. Theirs was a question coming from the inside, serving as a response
to the perception of art on the outside.
I wondered then how one was to define Asian American art. Is it art
made by people who live in the USA but are of Asian origins? Is it art that
reflects subjects and aesthetic styles or techniques typical of specific Asian
visual art traditions? Is it art that reflects the unique concerns, topics and
styles emerging from the experience of being part of the Asian diaspora in
the USA (Machida 2008, p. 29)? Many insides and outsides are at play in
the posing of such questions.
If there was no consensus on the definition of Asian American art
among the experts, then my initial research project was pointless. In that
moment I realized that my research would have to be an interrogation of
the history and meaning of Asian American art as an evolving, contested
cultural formation. As of now, after years of research and writing, those
same questions on Asian American art remain unsettled, even among
scholars and art historians specializing in Asian America—notably,
Machida, Chang and Johnson, Higa, Kim and Mizota—all of whom rec-
ognize the increased internal diversity of Asian American communities due
to the basic demographic growth of such groups across the USA, as well
as the vast differences among cultures and countries of origin. These are
some of the many outside factors shaping an externally imposed Asian
Americanness, a collective space of artistic, cultural and demographic shifts
and internal negotiations. The complicated question that remains on the
table is, how do demographics and cultural diversity influence style, sub-
jects and the foci of Asian American artists? Why, when, and to what pur-
poses do artists chose to identify with such a cultural or demographic
label, both in the past and today? Is it to claim visibility? To search for
belonging in the larger, diverse mix of American ethnicities and cultures?
These are the background questions to my investigation.
INTRODUCTION: VISUALITY, GENDER AND ASIAN AMERICA 3
by that oscillation between the present need to claim an identity and the
simultaneous recognition of diversity within it, as if the label, while used,
has become stifling and stale. As a feminist, postcolonial scholar interested
in social movements, I find this oscillation interesting to explore in com-
parison with the debates in transnational feminism concerning the use of
terms “queer,” “gay” or “feminist” as accepted and rejected by younger
generations or by non-American LGBTQI* communities.
As I was immersing myself in the literature on Asian American Women,
I was exposed to a new set of ideas and genealogical questions on Asian
American art. In Fall 2008, I saw Asian American Modern Art: Shifting
Currents, 1900–1970 at the San Francisco de Young Museum, curated by
Mark Johnson and Daniel Cornell. Chinese American historian Gordon
Chang, art professor ShiPu Wang, and curator Karin Higa, wrote intro-
ductory texts that gave a comprehensive set of views on the contribution
of artists born in the first half of the twentieth century, mostly in Asia, who
resided in the USA. Many prominent names, such as Yayoi Kusama, Yun
Gee, Isamu Noguchi, Chiura Obata, Yoko Ono and Nam June Paik were
featured in the show. From a feminist perspective, it featured few female
artists; with only nine out of sixty artists being female, they were outsiders
within the show. These artists were Miné Okubo, Miki Hayakawa, Hisako
Shimizu Hibi (married to painter George Matsaburo Hibi), Bernice Bing,
Tseng YuHo, Ruth Asawa, Kay Sekimachi and Emiko Nakano, all of them
connected to California. All the Japanese American women had experi-
enced internment.
I mention the show here because it was explicitly connecting Asian
American history with questions of representation, modernity and high
art. The show was defined by Higa as “the first comprehensive show that
examines the historical presence of artists of Asian descent in American art
[…] explicitly filtered through questions of race, identity and notions of
modernism” (Cornell and Johnson 2008, p. 15). This seems very much in
the same vein as Higa’s commentary on the One Way or Another show,
when Higa (together with Chu and Min) asks, rhetorically, what the poli-
tics of organizing a show around race could be, only to conclude its neces-
sity in the name of recovering the past of marginalized communities in the
United States (ibid., p. 17). The goal in each case is the validation of the
present communities by way of historicization, thus making the past useful
for the present. Higa demonstrates this in her language as well when she
points out that the term “Asian-American,” as one, hyphenated word, is
posthumous to most of the works and artists featured, and so the title of
the show keeps separate the terms “Asian,” “American” and “Modern.”
INTRODUCTION: VISUALITY, GENDER AND ASIAN AMERICA 5
The other fundamental text that inspired this work is Fresh Talk/Daring
Gazes, Conversations on Asian American Art, published in 2003 and
edited by Margo Machida, Elaine Kim and Sharon Mizota. Machida, in
her preface to the volume, defends the project of collectively writing about
Asian American artists in a context where identity is seen as rigid and
essentialist. She warns against the conflation of attention to the cultural
specificity of minorities and cultural nationalism. She also evokes the
need to embrace cross-ethnic communications on the parallels and con-
trasts between Asian, Latino and African American artists—a need that has
not yet been met today.
In the same volume, the key essay that deeply shaped the trajectory of
my research was “Interstitial Subjects: Asian American Visual Art as a Site
for New Cultural Conversations” by Kim et al. (2003, p. 1). In fifty pages,
Kim traces all the historical evolution of Asian American art since the first
photography studio in the 1850s’ Chinatowns. She argues for Asian
American art’s distinctive and unique Americanness, criticizing the art his-
torian’s desire to identify Asian art elements in the work of Asian American
artists as the only element that would authenticate them as such. Most
importantly, Kim develops a long section about the lesser-known artists of
the 1970s who played a crucial role in starting Asian American cultural
productions—written, visual and aural—often choosing the political form
of the collective. Kim’s focus here emphasizes the historical and political
aspects of art: the 1960s and 1970s’ openness to the streets, the public
space, the crowds protesting the Vietnam War, racial segregation, and police
brutality. She makes apparent the importance of the Asian American
movement and its interconnections with Black and Brown coalitions and
liberation movements as well as the new kinds of freely accessible art cre-
ated in the streets: murals and experimental printed materials such as zines,
posters and flyers. The collective impetus of that time still resonates
strongly and in my preliminary research I discovered quite a few texts
devoted to that period, written by Asian American participants. As much
as I liked the period, I felt that its chorality would have been hard for me
to study as a total outsider, separate in time, space and identity from that
movement and moment. I listened to the female voices of women like
Nancy Hom, Nellie Wong, Genny Lim and Janice Mirikitani; read their
poems, and appreciated their addressing of women’s multiple roles, their
activist messages, and, equally of importance, their silences. Their political
side came first, always the most visible priority, and then slowly came the
discovery of the inside, the personal, marked by gender and ethnicity: the
painful silences of exile and uprootedness.
INTRODUCTION: VISUALITY, GENDER AND ASIAN AMERICA 7
In writing close to the other of the other, I can only choose to maintain self-
reflexively a critical relationship towards the material, a relationship that
defines both the subject written and the writing subject, undoing the I while
asking what do I want wanting to know you or me? (Trinh 1989, p. 79)
main focus is on film and popular media. This book borrows some of their
tools to look at the framing of high art as a transnational discourse and
takes the freedom to move between a theoretical level, a global, political
analysis, and a critique of specific local artists. It looks at art and culture in
response to Orientalist gender and racial stereotypes in order to define
hegemonic culture and spaces of resistance and creativity. I borrow the
tools of postcolonial theory to outline the persistence of forms of Orientalism
and the more or less subtle ways in which it keeps returning. I examine art
politically, as a cultural formation where claims of belonging and exclusions
take place.
This book fundamentally connects Asian immigration, gender and art,
registering the recurring forms of orientalism3 in contemporary art. It
thus confirms much of the findings in the existing literature while choos-
ing a more recent timeframe than that in the texts mentioned above and
most importantly, draws temporal and spatial continuities that have been
buried under the implicit narratives of local, identity-based art exhibi-
tions. My research follows some of the literature used in Asian American
studies since, as Susan Koshy noted, it “regards a political subject formu-
lation that makes visible a history of exclusion and discrimination against
Asian immigrants” (Koshy 2004, p. 13). Various publications in the field
of Asian cultural studies have opened a transnational space of cultural
analysis in the last decade: Shu Mei Shih’s Visuality and Identity (2007),
Peter Feng’s Identities in Motion (2002) and Roger Garcia’s Out of the
Shadows (2001) offer interesting tools and politically multifaceted posi-
tions, though their main focus is on film and popular media. My book
borrows some of their tools to look at the framing of high art and to cri-
tique specific local artists.
This book covers contemporary art from the 1970s to the present,
moving in dialogue with three specific temporal nodes: the political legacy
of 1970s’ Asian American art in the United States, feminist art and the
emergence of a transnational feminist standpoint in the 1990s; and, the
contemporary East Asian/Pacific Rim networks of cultural and artistic
production. The main argument develops along two lines. On the one
hand I compare the 1990s’ celebration of ethnic identity, within the multi
culturalist frame of cultural policies, with the Asian American movement
of the late 1960s, in which art and politics were deeply intertwined. On
the other hand, I aim to problematize the “global” and the Chinese “art
boom” as buzzwords that reconfigure East–West discourses on contem-
porary art. The book intervenes in the contemporary shift of attention to
INTRODUCTION: VISUALITY, GENDER AND ASIAN AMERICA 13
Questions of Location
Some of the artists I have interviewed since 2009 are first-generation
immigrants who arrived in the 1970s and 1980s, while other artists were
born in America (as first, half or second generation). Still others are fourth
generation, having grown up in families of Chinese and Japanese origin,
and who have also been deeply imbued with multiple aspects of Californian
culture. I talked with contemporary artists Betty Kano, Nancy Hom,
Trinh T. Minh-ha and Cynthia Tom, asking about their aesthetic choices,
the biographical experiences that determined their need to create a com-
munity and their opinions on the relevance of that collectivity in the new
millennium.
In my interviews, I focus on the interrelated questions of art, value and
work in various ways by focusing on the work of art as valued or devalued
in the Californian, Asian-immigrant community; the political work and
activism the artist performs for the Asian community; the limited mone-
tary value of the work of art produced by Asian female-identified artists in
America; and finally, the transformative value of such art, against oriental-
ist expectations. I argue that this group of female-identified, contemporary
artists of Asian descent in California are transforming the predomi-
nantly orientalist images still circulating in middle and high-brow art
institutions today, by either rejecting an exoticized use of their ethnic
INTRODUCTION: VISUALITY, GENDER AND ASIAN AMERICA 15
background, or, when not born in the United States, refusing to tie their
work solely to their country of origin.
The stories of the postcolonial female artists I have chosen call into
question ethnic identifications and suggest far more interesting trajecto-
ries than the entrenchment in the multicultural ghettoes and identity poli-
tics that was so typically embraced in the 1990s. Therefore, if the central
subjects of this book are contemporary female visual artists of Asian
descent in California, this book is not strictly about Asian American iden-
tity. I use the umbrella term consciously, not to suggest a cohesive unity
but, rather, to reference an external label often imposed on the artists
through continuing social processes of becoming other, yet always already
American.
Throughout the book, I follow the artists’ ongoing attempts to gain
visibility and to create artistic connections based on identification and
mutual support within the Asian American diaspora in the San Francisco
Bay Area. I have chosen to analyze artwork that challenges the persistent
stereotypical images of Asian American femininities as passive and “orien-
tal.” I look at the specific cultural milieu, where transnational, intergenera-
tional and gender connections have flourished, demonstrating a unique
case of translation and a postcolonial crossing of East Asian and American
West Coast cultures. I argue that the artwork reflects a political and aes-
thetic urgency and a constant weaving of identities and languages, dislo-
cating many binaries and stable forms (centers and peripheries, male and
female, written and visual canons). The interview transcripts highlight the
fact that these contemporary artists present a complex positioning that
fluctuates through a poetic space without sacrificing a sense of rootedness
in their political community. I ask about their aesthetic choices, factors
that have determined their need to create a community and their opinions
on the relevance of that collectivity in the new millennium.
Why California?
This book focuses on California because of the unique role that the West
Coast has played as a primary destination for Asian (especially Chinese and
Japanese) immigrants since the nineteenth century, and for many other
East and South Asian groups in the twentieth century. California is a
highly relevant place for the development of Asian American communities
and cultural formations over the last two centuries.
16 L. FANTONE
Questions of Positionality
I present Theresa Hak-Kyung Cha, Trinh T. Minh-ha and Michelle Dizon
as postcolonial artists who have worked outside the strict boundaries of
nationality and ethnicity, thereby avoiding being situated in any of those
categories through their unique ways of crossing genres and contaminat-
ing languages, poetic forms and other media of choice. While questioning
the persistence of national labels applied to female artists with diasporic
INTRODUCTION: VISUALITY, GENDER AND ASIAN AMERICA 17
but at the same time, this “community” is only supplemental and subordin
ated to the prime visibility of Chinese—and some East Asian—arts. Such
discourse is still reflected in some of the stale rhetoric of a few Californian
art institutions. In these contexts, Asian female artists are neither consid-
ered central nor nurtured by the main institutional art spaces. They are
rather invited to sit at the far corner of the table as representative of a com-
munity that cannot realistically be excluded, but is only really present
when colored bodies are needed to add flavor to the canon or high-profile,
“cosmopolitan” events. The predominant discourse created by curators
and critics still traps these artists in the past, tending to hide their contri-
butions to California’s culture in the present, or, in a twisted irony, caging
them behind the golden bars of authenticity by asking them to fit into
narrow conceptions of Chineseness or Asian femininity. I ground my con-
clusions in relation to Machida’s concept of a “community of cultural
imagination” for Asian American art. Such a vision remains far from com-
mon, in the context of neo-orientalism. I also discuss how the combina-
tion of discourses on “post-raciality” and Sinocentrism diminish the
visibility of female artists of the Asian diaspora.
Many questions remain unanswered in respect to the contemporary
Sinocentrism and Eurocentrism of art’s elites in San Francisco, and ques-
tions about the lack of collectors of Asian American art, too, deserve to be
addressed, in light of the massive influx of Asian investment in the Silicon
Valley area. This book offers voices, images, artworks and cultural policies
using postcolonial and feminist theories, aimed at restituting to Asian
American women artists a deserved place at the table: a dinner table at a
nice place, uniquely shaped by multiplicity and opacity, open to the future
of Asian Americanness, as expansive as AAWAA is and as welcoming as the
California Bay Area can be. A place of their own.
Notes
1. These are authors apparently belonging to different traditions, and yet con-
nected by their poetic feminism and by their biographies intertwined with
the francophone postcolonial contexts, such as Algeria and Vietnam.
2. I connected Cha’s work with the 1980s emergence of other women-of-
color writings on gender. Among many titles the list includes: Cherríe
Moraga and Gloria Anzaldúa’s edited volume This Bridge Called My Back:
Radical Writings from Women of Color (1981), Sister Outsider by Audre
Lorde (1984), bell hooks’s Ain’t I a Woman (1981), Elaine Kim’s edited
volume Making Waves: An Anthology of Writings by and about Asian
American Women (1989).
22 L. FANTONE
3. Throughout the rest of the book I am going to use the word “orientalism”
and the adjective “orientalist” in lower case, from now on, and throughout
my book. It should already be clear that I do not refer to the Orientalist
painters nor do I consider the Orient a valid category of analysis. I wish to
signal here that I maintain a critical view while still needing to use the term
to point at such a discourse that still has currency, as well as its related schol-
arship. I have added “neo-orientalism” to further develop Edward Said’s
critique, and adapt it to the present fear of “the rise” of China.
4. Since 2010, the Obama administration had adopted a policy of rebalancing
the United States toward Asia, as detailed in 2012 its military, economic
decisions and trade, human rights, and diplomatic initiatives. Barack Obama
stated that the United States will play a leadership role in Asia for many years
to come, but this slogan may very well be a new label for old policies aimed
at furthering the influence of the United States in Asia. In fact, many schol-
ars have argued that since World War II the major focus of United States
foreign policy has been Asia. In this context, I only wish to underline the
resonance between such focus, and the US cultural policies effecting circula-
tion of art across the Pacific.
5. My use of “Asian American” is consciously loose, as my writings reflect on
how Asian Americanness is not a fixed category, but the result of historically
situated and strategic uses, constantly renegotiated. I do not intend to treat
the category of Asian Americanness as static and monolithic, but to signal
more clearly its usefulness to evade national and ethnic labels and, by virtue
of its political fluidity, its proximity to the queer and postcolonial theory on
which I found my research.
References
Asian/American/Modern Art: Shifting Currents, 1900–1970. Fine Arts Museums
of San Francisco, de Young Museum, 2008–9. Exhibition brochure.
Bhabha, Homi K. 1994. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge.
Cheah, Pheng, and Bruce Robbins, eds. 1998. Cosmopolitics: Thinking and Feeling
Beyond the Nation. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Cornell, Daniel, and Mark Dean Johnson, eds. 2008. Asian/American/Modern
Art: Shifting Currents, 1900–1970. Berkeley: University of California Press.
Djebar, Assia. 1992. Women of Algiers in their Apartment. Charlottesville:
University Press of Virginia. (original edition, Paris: Des femmes, 1980).
Fanon, Frantz. [1967] 2008. Black Skin, White Masks. New York: Grove Press.
Feng, Peter X. 2002. Identities in Motion: Asian American Film and Video.
Durham: Duke University Press.
Garcia, Roger, ed. 2001. Out of the Shadows: Asians in American Cinema. Milan/
New York: Olivares.
INTRODUCTION: VISUALITY, GENDER AND ASIAN AMERICA 23
ART
all black against white, white sheer light shapes a female face out of darkness.
diagonal and horizontal lines
contrasted lights.
the traits of the woman’s face become signs,
The Asian invisible workers are in the light of power.
They run the show.
Everyone knows that, but who ever thought of their faces?
she is smiling and looking up
powerfully.
Confident she can, with many other working women shut the country down.
A classic style that did not age
I wish I could have been there to see them perform.
Nancy Hom poet and visual artist, with her multiplicity and lightness
left a trace of that event,
its subject affirmation resonating across the decades
red strength reverberating
Introduction
This chapter describes the work of Nancy Hom, a female Chinese-
American artist active in the 1970s, who produced images of empower-
ment and political resistance, especially in response to American imperialism
The contrast between boiling chicken and dancing wildly are brought
together by Hom so elegantly and proudly, a Toisanese immigrant woman
and a young artist speaking in the same poem. In this lies the power of her
work, breaking from the limiting discourses of the poor, hardwork-
ing, immigrant Asian woman, dedicated to family and traditions, that per-
meates so much of American culture in its imperative to reduce its
immigrants to a few, useful stereotyped characteristics to go by when
encountering them in everyday life.
There’s a part of me where I embrace all the parts of my life, and my back-
grounds. There’s a hippy part of me. There’s a beat part of me. There’s a
mother, older enough to have gone through a lot of different cultural influ-
ences… you know, all that stuff, if you embrace it all, is very freeing, but it
is also very difficult to do that without breaking away from some contradic-
tions, family, finances, languages.
Hom takes these contradictions she experiences and gives them to the
audience, in a dry, ironic verse. In other writings, she explicitly addresses
the awkward silences about her sexual life with her mother, the increasing
gaps between her and her family, typical of any college-bound young
woman, except heightened in her perception by her respect and filial duty
toward her older female relatives.
The old ladies from Toisan didn’t know, couldn’t have known that this dutiful
daughter sitting silently beside her mother was the same person sprawled on
the floor of somebody’s dorm at the Pratt Institute the night before… listen-
ing to the Beatles’s She’s So Heavy. (Hom, in Louie and Omatsu 2001, p. 102)
ASIAN AMERICAN ART FOR THE PEOPLE 29
There were so many things the old ladies didn’t know about me;
… this young Chinese immigrant was Toisanese enough to know you
never visit without bringing oranges; this is the same person who wrapped
toilet paper around an armature for her art final and drank beer in question-
able Bed-Sty bars with men with Hell’s Angels Jackets. … I was an artist,
I drew the wind and clouds; I followed the patters of light as it lit the
trees and buildings; I wrote odes to the lily child. (Hom, in Louie and
Omatsu 2001, p. 102)
In the last sentence Hom expresses a core desire, a deeply felt need that
I heard from many other Asian American artists. Being an artist meant for
her, and many others, finding a space to escape family obligations, and
the social and ethical pressures of dutiful daughters, and, in contrast,
allowing for the need to use creativity as a space of resistance to such pres-
sures. Hom, as most artists of that generation, desired to be rebellious
but not just in an individualized manner. She sought to simultaneously
channel art and creativity into a political resistance against being minori-
tized in American society. The key shift here is art making for social
change in general terms—to art making for the Asian American emerging
community, which meant creating an artist community, and forging a
specifically Asian American artist community. Hom was not the only artist
thinking along these lines, as such acrobatic bridging of activism,
education and self-education about political issues and creativity was a
30 L. FANTONE
They sang things that resonated with me, songs of garment workers and
railroad builders, people like my parents.
There was some kind of bing moment that went off in me.
Through the singers, members of the Asian American Media Collective,
me, Tomie Arai and a few other women became active and conscious. Tomie
then joined the Basement Workshop, a grassroots art organization in
New York. (Hom in Machida et al. 2008, p. 18)
As Hom moved away from the NY Chinatown where she grew up, and
engaged fully in her political activism (Hom, in Louie and Omatsu 2001,
p. 104) she kept contrasting her family and home-cooked food with her
explorations of the city with her peers, also Asian artists and radicals.
We hang out in the streets, a wine glass in our hand, talk of Asian American
themes, eating mai fon at 3 o’clock in the morning.
… My mother made mai fon but it did not taste as good as when I went
out with my friends at the 217 Collective. Mother’s mai fon had seasonings
from 4000 years of righteous upbringing, served on Sundays to the old
ladies that came by to visit, and reminiscence about China. (Hom 1971,
unpublished diary)
My parents and the old ladies chuckled at my lifestyle … wearing beads and
headbands made of men’s ties.
I did not understand why they disapproved; What I was doing was for
them: the Health Fair, the Food Fair, the protests, the films. The movement
was for their benefit; yet all they saw was the strange clothes and demonstra-
tors dragged by police on TV. (Hom, in Louie and Omatsu 2001, p. 102)
A tragic contrast between the goals and the forms of mobilization, in this
difficult space, Hom and many Asian American activists found strength
and a strong determination to change American society and vindicate
the Chinese community’s lack of visibility, material poverty and general
32 L. FANTONE
social neglect. Hom writes, in her poem “Drinking Tea with Both
Hands” (written in 1977),
In me echoes the cries of ancestor
screams of Westerners
blending in dissonance
and harmony (Hom in Lippard, 1990)
In New York I joined [the] basement workshop briefly, but not for long...
soon after I left to California. I left because, well, for one thing, my hus-
band, well, (boyfriend at the time)5 was laid off and I had a 9 to 5 job. I
don’t think I was ever made for a 9 to 5 job. It was a commercial publishing
company, but I felt like I wanted to do more. And it took a lot of my hours.
So, I really wanted to really find a place where I could earn some money, but
also I could devote a lot more time to community issues and it seemed like
California was more suited that way than New York. New York was so
expensive.
Moving to San Francisco made it all come together, politically and cre-
atively, when Hom found the group who started the Kearny Street
Workshop.
I was fresh out of college. I had already joined some groups in New York.
I wanted something that was not just your usual gallery art scene, career-
type thing. I wanted to do something for the community, too. And I had
heard about the San Francisco housing battle for I-Hotel,6 even in New York.
So literally, we drove across the country and landed at the I-Hotel, and I saw
this storefront, and I said, oh, it seems like just the place for me. That’s how
I got started here.
We came to California in 1974. That’s two years after the workshop was
already started. So, at that time Jim Dong was the main driver as an artistic
direction. They had all those community workshops and summer programs
ASIAN AMERICAN ART FOR THE PEOPLE 33
for the youth, many organized by Harvey Dong, which included non-art
activities like camping and sewing and leather craft. It had a whole bunch of
arts and crafts activities plus social activities.
So, the real original intent of Kearny Street Workshop wasn’t specifically
artistic.
Which is very interesting now because it [is] all artistic focus, but then
Jim was the only visual artist. He did murals and he did silk screens because
of his connection with the Chicano movement, which was strong in San
Francisco at the time. Their murals were happening in the Mission, and
poster art. A few months later on, some people like Jack Wu and Leland
Wong, also embraced that silkscreen medium and popular themes for
posters.
In her recent book Serving the People, Making Asian America in the Long
Sixties,7 art historian Karen Ishizuka develops an argument about poster
art as a form that democratized the aesthetics and distribution of what was
considered “art” (2016, p. 134).8 Ishizuka quotes Julianne Gavino,
explaining that the KSW’s mission was conveyed fully in the aesthetics of
the posters themselves and their geographic circulation. “By their place-
ment in selected communities, the posters communicated a subtextual
message: Asian American ethnic communities are to be valued and made
visible in society” (ibid., p. 135).
Similarly, Berkeley librarian and political posters’ collector Lincoln
Cushing, eloquently speaking about the semiotic power of poster art in
the 1960s and 1970s, argues that posters were the most iconic art form
of the 1960s: these fragile documents were capable of transmitting such
abstract concerts as “solidarity,” “sisterhood” and “peace,” all over the
world.
Art and politics were inextricably connected for Hom, so at the time
she also started to use the silkscreen because many posters and flyers for
demonstrations were designed with silkscreen. Leland Wong is another
legendary San Franciscan, Chinese American artist who combined tradi-
tional artistic skills with political themes in his work, always with humor
and an accessible pop-lightness. Hom became an active member for thirty
years, eventually becoming the executive director of the Kearny Street
Workshop from 1995 to 2003, after Jim Dong’s twenty-year run (Fig. 2.2).
In her interview, Hom retraces the origins of the Kearny Street Workshop
(KWS):
34 L. FANTONE
Fig. 2.2 Nancy Hom and filmmaker Loni Ding at Kearny Street Workshop,
photo taken by Bob Hsiang
Kearny Street Workshop was started by two men Jim Dong and Mike Chin,
and Lora Jo Foo,9 the only woman, in 1972.
It was a little difficult initially because there weren’t many women there.
In fact, hardly any and none with the artistic vision that Jim was holding
himself. I arrived in San Francisco in 1974, and I wanted to do art.
Everything was done in those times like a collective, so even if you were the
artist, everybody else chipped in and helped you produce your mural or your
poster or whatever and hardly anyone signed their names even, which is very
hard for archivist[s] now, although we recognize each other[’s] styles. …
Jim Dong went to school at SF State and he was a very versatile artist,
very prominent here for his focus on Chinese American community and life
stories. Mike Chin is now a filmmaker, but before he was interested in silk-
screen, they wanted to do something with their art and also to give back to
the community. So, when the three of us got together it seemed like a natural
fit to do something in Chinatown, but not just in Chinatown, inside the
International Hotel.
… And the struggle there started in 1968, so by the time they graduated
that struggle was already brewing. And they happen[ed] to have a nice,
cheap storefront, [with] which they thought they could offer classes to the
community.
ASIAN AMERICAN ART FOR THE PEOPLE 35
Hom immediately felt the relevance of the KSW art collective, being
located in the heart of two ethnic enclaves; such a location was a greatly
energizing political element, in the urban dense space between Manilatown
and today’s Chinatown:
Around the corner from the I-Hotel, we had a storefront, for community
the Asian Community Center, and then around the corner was Jackson
Street Gallery. It was a huge space because our workshop space was good
enough for silkscreen workshop, ceramics, a real workshop place, but there
was no exposition space. When we got the gallery, we had twice as much
space as that. We had exhibition space, a little stage area, we had a whole
other space on the other side, offices in front and upstairs, a luxurious space.
Jackson Street meant we could have performances, classes every night, exhi-
bitions, meetings going on, and that was a very exciting time for us and all
kinds of artists came through because you could have art and photography
shows. Ethnic artists came from different parts of the country, too. This
made it different from a local group working only for their own local com-
munity; different ideas would emerge [from] these rich exchanges.
The epic story of the I-Hotel, which cannot be summarized here,10 inter-
sects with Hom’s work and cultural activism in deep ways, especially in
connecting with other Chinese American artists.
During that time politics was our daily bread, from 1974, the I-Hotel
tenants got evicted in 1977, so those were crucial three years building up
momentum for the big showdown and so a lot of our activities were printing
flyers, posters in support of events revolving around the I-Hotel struggle
and a lot [of] expositions. The other major issue [was] of Angel Island, in 1976.
At that point we were also approached by Paul Kagawa11 who wanted to save
the immigration station from being torn down, so calling attention to this
place and the history of Asian detention behind it. And then, eventually, it
wasn’t torn down, and the new Kearny Street actually did a major show with
Flo (Oy Wong) on the same topic. …
Eventually, Jim (Dong) and I hooked up as artistic buddies, and did
many printing projects together, and we opened up Jackson Street Gallery.
That meant that we had an exposition space and then all of these artists
came gradually together: poets, performers, photographers.
Hom recalls how Jim Dong and Leland Wong worked incessantly as silk-
screen artists to create posters reflecting the community’s needs. What made
a big impression on her was when she saw them making images of garment
workers, Asian women, just like her mother. She was clearly attracted to the
Another random document with
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Fig. 1
Fig. 2
Fig. 3
Fig. 4 Fig. 5
The traveling man who “lives in a suitcase” and at the same time
wishes to enjoy the pleasures of amateur photography sometimes
experiences difficulty in developing films in a hotel room. Soup plates
borrowed from the steward, or even the bowl pitcher and the ice-
water pitcher in the room, can be used for development, but it is very
hard to improvise a ruby lamp. My emergency lamp is a small vest-
pocket flash lamp over which two yellow envelopes, one inside of the
other, are slipped, as shown. The lower edges are cut perfectly
square and rest on the table, or shelf, in the closet, and all white light
is excluded. At night, the shades may be drawn, and a yellow-paper
sack may be tied around the electric light.—Contributed by J. L.
Pinkston, Granite Hill, Ga.
An Ice Creeper
Dissolve ¹⁄₂ oz. of orange shellac in ¹⁄₂ pt. of alcohol, and add 1
teaspoonful of Venice turpentine, the same quantity of raw linseed
oil, and 2 oz. tincture of benzoin. Shake well, and set in a varnish
can in hot water.
Soak the coiled line in the varnish for two hours, then hang it up to
dry. Thin the varnish with alcohol, and repeat the dipping. When the
line is dry, rub it down well with a wool rag greased with tallow. Silk
lines treated in this manner are pliable, and the fibers of the silk are
so united by the varnish that the strength of the line is almost
doubled.
Making Chest Lock More Secure
Theprose,
charm of the birchen canoe has long been sung in verse and
and while the bark that the Indian used has been
supplanted by a more perfect type of modern manufacture, the
popularity of this, the most graceful of water craft, has increased with
years, until today we find the canoe the choice of thousands of
recreation seekers who paddle about in park lakes and quiet
streams, or spend their vacations in cruising down rivers and other
attractive waterways—sometimes within the environs of towns and
villages, and again dipping paddles in the wilderness streams of the
far north. True, the modern canoe is a distinct product of the
twentieth century, and while it is so largely used at summer resorts, it
nevertheless retains all the good points of the old, while embodying
numerous improvements which fit it even better for wilderness travel
than the Indian model after which it was patterned. The noteworthy
increase in the number of canoeists in the past dozen years is good
evidence that this natty craft is fast coming into its own, and as more
and more outdoor men and women understand its possibilities and
limitations and become proficient in handling it, the long-rooted fear
and distrust with which the uninformed public regard the canoe, will
pass away. As a matter of fact, accidents ever follow in the wake of
ignorance and carelessness, and while there are very few expert
gunners injured by firearms, and still fewer experienced canoeists
drowned, there are numerous sad accidents constantly occurring to
the reckless and foolhardy, who do not know how to handle a
weapon, nor understand the first thing about paddling a canoe. Let
us consider then, the practical side of the subject, the choice of a
suitable canoe and the knack of handling it in a safe and efficient
manner.
If one would experience in full measure the many-sided charm of
paddling, he should get a good canoe. Unlike other and heavier
water craft, the canoe is a lightly balanced and responsive
conveyance, which may be cranky and dangerous, or safe and
stable, according to the model, the skill of the builder, and the
dexterity of the paddler. There are canoes and canoes, of varying
models and sizes, and constructed of many materials, and while all
may serve as a means of getting about in the water, the paddling
qualities include numerous little idiosyncrasies which serve to
differentiate canoes as well as men. In fact, this light and graceful
craft may be properly viewed as the highest type of boat building,
since it must be fashioned strong but light; it must be steady when
going light; capable of carrying comparatively heavy loads; draw little
water, and it must be honestly constructed of good material to stand
up under the hard usage which every canoe is subjected to, whether
used for summer paddling, or upon long hunting and shooting trips.
Three types of canoes are in common use by experienced
canoeists, the birch-bark, the all-wood, and the canvas-covered
cedar canoe. The birch-bark, by reason of its rougher workmanship,
is slow under the paddle, is easily injured, and it grows heavier and
more difficult to handle every time it is used. The all-wood canoe is
most expensive to buy, and though swift under the paddle, is too
easily injured and too difficult to repair for rough and ready use. The
cedar-planked canoe which is covered with filled and painted canvas
is for many reasons the best all-around craft-attractive enough for
park use, and stout enough for use in rapid water and for cruising in
northern lakes and rivers.
This type of craft is much used in Canada along the St. Lawrence
River, and to a much less extent by American sportsmen, owing to
its higher cost, and its tendency to break and cause a leak. Of
course, the all-wood canoe is a good craft, but everything
considered, there can be no question in the minds of canoeists who
are acquainted with all types of canoes, that the all-cedar or
basswood craft is less dependable than the canvas-covered cedar
canoe. The Peterborough type—so called from a Canadian city of
this name where many wood canoes are made—with its relatively
low ends and straight sides with but little sheer and tumble home, is
the model commonly used by practically all manufacturers of the all-
wood canoe. While a boat of this kind can be, and often is, used in
rough-water lake paddling as well as in wilderness travel, the all-
wood canoe is better suited for club use, and in the wider and more
quiet-flowing streams and lakes.
The Best All-Around Craft, for Two Men and a Reasonable Amount of Camp
Duffle, Is a Canvas-Covered Cedar Canoe, 16 Feet Long, 32-Inch Beam, and
12 Inches Amidships, Weighing About 60 Pounds
The Canvas-Covered Cedar Canoe